


Apple of Accord

by QuillerQueen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, F/M, Golden Apple AU, Greek Mythology AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: How a thief stole from Love, out of love, and reaped love in the end.TW: mentions of abuse.





	Apple of Accord

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lau-p-g](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lau-p-g).



> Happy Valentine's Day to my secret admiree, laura-p-g, based on this brilliant piece of hers.  
> http://laura-p-g.tumblr.com/post/110990755059/outlaw-queen-week-feb-13-greek-mythology-au#notes
> 
> TW: mentions of abuse.

 

### Prologue: The Theft

This was never part of the plan.

The sandals, certainly, and the winged staff to complete the look. He’d been plotting this heist for months, toying with it for much longer. The lofty heights of Mount Olympus had been meticulously mapped, stories of old scoured for grains of truth, lines drawn and redrawn in sand. Every step had been carefully calculated, painstakingly practised, and expertly executed. The couple of close calls even had been expected and prepared for.

But never the Apple.

For it is _the_ Apple.

The one bards sing about.

The one over which gods squabbled, mortals bled, and a nation fell.

Not even Hermes himself, patron of thieves with cheek enough as a newborn babe to rob the god Apollo, would dare steal such an artifact.

And yet here Robin is, a silent shadow sneaking through Aphrodite’s palace, fool enough to pluck the golden fruit from its perch on a bed of silk. Not a single spell stops him, nor does a curse halt his course. Swift as a bird he flies across the skies, and the further he is from where the Twelve Olympians reside and rule mankind, the smaller the imminent threat, the larger his odds for success and, indeed, survival.

Yet as he descends over the shimmery forest, his heart only begins to knock faster.

### Parode: Lovelorn

_CHORUS:_

_The world in sheer awe of his prowess would stand -_

_So the thief had once hoped as his heist he had planned._

_Now his feet have donned wings, and the thief’s taken flight,_

_Yet his soul is aflutter with a bittersweet plight._

 

_In the depths of the woods on a bright, starry eve,_

_Amid pines and great oaks gently rustled by breeze,_

_Silv’ry moonbeams shed light on a vision most fair:_

_Pale silk twined with billowing locks of dark hair._

 

_Of the queen and her sorrow the forest knows much,_

_It alone lends an ear, lends a shoulder, a crutch._

_Not the gods nor mere men ever hear of her pain,_

_For the queen mourns in secret and lonely she reigns._

 

_With the voice of a Siren she sang her lament,_

_With her head held up high—not broken, just bent._

_And the thief? Oh woe, pierced through the heart in a beat,_

_Thus now spurred by Love’s arrow to reckless deceit._

 

_To the fairest, it says, burns a hole in his palm:_

_The device comes with baggage, it stings, steals his calm._

_Golden fruit of sunsets by Hesperides grown,_

_Slyly thrown; discord sown. Award won. Troy’s fame—gone._

 

_Oh, beware, noble thief, though your heart may be true,_

_Your gift may turn poison as gods ask their due._

_Aphrodite shall know, Aphrodite shall see,_

_Yea, the goddess shall rage, revenge shall she seek._

 

### Episode 1: The Meeting

Her grove is but a green blur today, a dull grey veil hanging over her precious trees. It rather befits Regina’s bleak disposition, and perhaps it’s for the best _—_ better, at any rate, than having an ostentatiously cheerful sun beating down on her as she toils away. And toil away she will _—_ not even Zeus at the height of his thundering temper has ever been able to thwart her.

Every day she comes, dawn and dusk, digging through mud and combing through branches, and pours her heart out to these mute confidants. The trees in turn thrive under her care. From rainwater and tears spring white blossoms and apples red as blood. They are Regina’s pride and joy _—_ the only one the gods, if ever they should spare her a thought, provide these days.

She's bent over an orderly row of saplings and elbow-deep in soil when a glint of gold catches her eye.

Squinting skyward, she expects Helios in his golden chariot, far away on the horizon that he's reduced to the usual golden disc among the clouds, but instead _—_

Regina gasps, grasping for purchase as she jumps backward in her fright. There’s nothing quite sturdy enough nearby to offer support or protection, and so she staggers and flails to no avail _—_ then lands square on her rear.

By the time she glances up, the apparition is hovering mere feet from the ground. Hovering nonetheless.

A god, then. One of those petty, unreliable deities who seem to care very little about humans unless it suits their agenda or self-image. Young (though they're all ageless), fit (not that it’s relevant or, probably, earned), in a crispy white tunic with a splash of gold.

“Are you injured?” he blurts, offering a hand from mid-air and very nearly toppling over himself, cursing as he rights himself on winged sandals.

Of course Regina isn’t injured, she’s clumsy is what she is. How impertinent and presumptuous of him to just appear in her grove out of the blue, give her a fright, then assume she needs his help.

“I can handle myself,” she huffs as she rises gracelessly to prove it. “What would you have of me?”

He seems taken aback by her curt retort, his eyes (blue, like the damn sky he came from) widening. Figures _—_ gods aren’t used to rejection after all. Nor do they respond well to it. Perhaps she’d do best to keep that in mind if she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her days transformed into some poor beast or measly plant.

“M’lady,” says this insolent man (no, _god_ , and all the more dangerous for that) with a smirk pulling at his lips, “I was sent by the gods to give this present to you, the fairest of them all.”

Regina blinks. She stares at the floating phenomenon, gaze travelling from stubbled face to the ornate staff in his hand. That can’t be right _—_ why would Hermes be offering up his fabled caduceus to a mortal? But it’s his other arm that stretches towards her, and in his palm sits _—_ an apple.

Not just any apple, though. No, this one is pure gold, with an inscription etched into it she can’t quite make out but can easily guess. Why in Tartarus would the gods want her to have the Apple that started a fateful feud among gods _and_ men?

Unless...

“You lie,” she tells him flatly before she can stop herself _—_ she’s never been known for subtlety, often been accused of bluntness and recklessness deemed so unseemly in a woman. “The gods haven’t sent you _—_ or _that_.”

For Aphrodite would never part with such a prized possession, which means he must have stolen it. If anyone, the patron of thieves and liars would.

Clearly she’s hit a nerve, for he swallows at the accusation, eyes flitting between the Apple and her own face, before that cocky grin reappears along with a casual shrug.

The smug bastard.

“What trickery is this?” she demands, her cheeks hot and the vein in her forehead throbbing with rage. He’s about to bring doom upon her with his careless actions and damnable ego, and for what?

What, indeed, if not that which the plethora of tales of lascivious gods pursuing mortal women so vividly describe?

Her stomach plummets and shrinks to a chilly fist, and trembling fingers fumble and clutch at the blue silk of her chiton under the guise of adjusting the folds _—_ but she holds her head high, her shoulders squared as she locks eyes with the winged intruder.

“I can’t be seduced with gifts. And if you intend to use force, well, I can hardly stop you, can I?” The dry non-chuckle that burst out of her is so unexpected Regina barely recognises it as her own. But she shan’t succumb, shan’t go willingly. She’s suffered enough abuse at the hands of her wretched husband _—_ enough that the very thought makes her deflate, a dull hollowness settling in where anger used to be. “If it is something else you’d have of me, tell me straight _—_ though I should warn you there isn’t much to give.”

She expects little of men and even less of one wielding godly powers _—_ and certainly not anything akin to the kindness that fills his words.

“I very much doubt that’s true,” he tells her softly.

It’s unbearably heavy somehow, that terrible kindness, makes the darkness her life’s been shrouded in feel thicker and more suffocating by comparison.

“You don’t know me,” she challenges, because being full of anger is better than the crushing emptiness that permeates her days.

“Ah, but are the gods not all-knowing?”

It could be a threat _—_ gods have a short temper and a long reach _—_ if not for that odd sparkle in his eyes, that upturn of his lips.

“Clearly not,” she huffs. (Reckless, always reckless, and far too stubborn for her own good.) “There’s ample evidence of that.”

He chuckles, actually _laughs_ at her irreverence. It’s a good laugh, warm as his words, and it reaches his eyes. Perhaps it’s not so odd after all for a brazen thief to appreciate that same boldness in others.

“The gods may not have sent me,” he shrugs, as if his theft and deceit were but a trifle, and turns the evidence of his crime in his hand to reveal the words _for the fairest_. “But the rest I assure you rings true.”

That’s...debatable. Flattering, certainly, if she were to believe him honest and his intentions pure. She shouldn’t though, has long since learned such is not the way of the world. And even if she were to give him the benefit of a doubt, surely he can see the obvious flaw in his plan?

“You’re a fool, then,” Regina says dryly, “to think Aphrodite will concede that coveted title to a mere mortal when not even the queen of the gods could deter her.” “You think you come bearing gifts? Doom follows in your wake, and I won’t be brought down with you.”

Defiance makes her do it _—_ reach up and push his hand away, Apple and all, to stress her point.

It’s a mistake. It’s a mistake because the moment they touch, she _feels_ something. A spark. Bright, and hot, and unexpected against the stone that’s become her heart. Or so she thought, but now…she’s no longer sure.

Not that it matters. It can’t. It won’t.

He doesn’t linger, doesn’t try to grab her or hold her in place or otherwise manhandle her. Instead he stares at her, then hangs his head and descends, slowly, to the ground, landing those gold-winged sandals in the mud.

He’s...not tall, exactly,now that they’re both standing on even ground. Why does that recognition hit her so hard? It’s different somehow, shifts the dynamic in an elusive but perceptible way.

“Forgive me, m’lady,” he swallows, looking utterly chastised when he meets her eyes again. “Your objections are well-founded. Trust me, to bring harm upon you is the last thing I want.”

She shouldn’t believe him. She swore she’d never fall for that lie again. Yet here she is, coaxed against her better judgement to entertain the possibility he’s being forthright with her.

“What _do_ you want, then?” Regina braces herself, collects her wits and pushes back hard against that traitorous gut-feeling of _right_ and _safe_. “Because you’ve gone to too much trouble to merely pay a woman a compliment without hopes of gain.”

“I understand your concern. On second thought, my gesture does seem somewhat excessive.” At her arched eyebrow, he raises his hands in surrender _—_ more than somewhat excessive, surely. “Apologies for causing you discomfort. I shall return the spoils. Say the word and off I go, never to bother you again. I assure you, m’lady, I shan’t press for anything you’re unwilling to give.”

It’s not the fervour with which he tries to convince her or even the gentle tone. Nor is it that damnable warmth that tingles in belly she can’t chase away. No, what really gets to her is the single step back, to give her the space his tongue so glibly promised _—_ because actions indeed speak louder than words, and it may be common courtesy but that’s been far from common in Regina’s life.

“Good,” she chokes back, and whatever does her voice mean by sounding so small, so sniffy? “Because my husband the king’s done enough taking already.”

“You’re married, then.”

Disappointment drips from his words, disappointment that should perhaps make her wary again, but she can’t find it in herself to care. All she cares about is the all-consuming onslaught of doom thrumming under her skin, rushing through her chest and coiling in her belly, as if her bones were crumbling under the weight of her loneliness.

A dark nod is all the answer she gives as she stares at the ground, begging the tears not to fall.

With a squelch of mud he shuffles his feet but keeps his distance. Still mindful of her space. Still waiting, perhaps, for that one word to send him on his way.

She doesn’t ask him to leave.

So he stays.

#### Stasimon 1: Lovesick

_CHORUS:_

_From pink Dawn to grey Dusk, golden day in between,_

_Fragile seeds do take root, and fresh shoots spring up green._

_At pink Dawn and grey Dusk two hearts traipse through the woods,_

_Oh but trees cannot pine as hard as hearts do._

 

_Shall he tell? Should he wait? For the stakes are too high._

_Though his heart, well, it knows: without wings they could fly._

 

_It’s a dream, just a dream, a chimera, that’s all._

_She should flee, but she stays. Taking risks, fearing fall._

 

_Back and forth, forth and back—a charades’ sad galore_

_Through old aches and pale scars from a lifetime ago._

_Tender wounds, bruises new cannot snuff out the spark,_

_For the light, it will out, burns to banish the dark._

 

### Episode 2: The Escape

The first time it happens, it’s a slip of the tongue. Playful, innocent.

Except it really isn’t.

They’re elbow-deep in soil, working side by side at pulling up weeds and making way for new seeds. Regina has just stopped giving him those sideways glances, reluctant to believe a supposed god would be any good at tree husbandry. And she can’t seem to stop talking.

It’s as if the simple act of gardening flipped a switch in her, a habit so ingrained it will out even though she has company now.

How many times has she confided in Gaia when no mortal ears would listen?

Are her words now meant for Robin’s ears? Or is this just a habit kicking in _—_ then would it be most prudent to pretend he’s heard nothing of the secrets she whispers to the wind? Not a word of the woes she buries into fresh-turned earth?

Nature is her confidante, not Robin, but when Regina absent-mindedly wipes at her temple and reveals an angry bruise, he cannot hold back.

“Come away with me.”

Regina freezes beside him, face averted so that his view reduced to her clenched jaw.

_Shit._

_Fuck._

He’s cocked this all up, has he not?

A dozen questions, good questions, perfectly justified questions, arise from his heated plea. Where would they even go? He doesn’t exactly have a residence on Mount Olympus (or, indeed, anywhere else for that matter), now does he? Besides, they barely know each other. Truthfully, he hasn’t been honest with her _—_ by the gods, she doesn’t even know his name.

She’s managed to school her features by the time she looks him in the face, her eyes (usually so expressive) closed-off but her tone would-be-light, teasing.

“And what makes you think I'd follow a stranger?”

“Perhaps my charm?” he shoots back with a half-smirk _—_ they’re on thin ice here.

“You're no Adonis,” she scoffs, looking him up and down.

His tunic is covered in a fine sheen of dust and dotted with splatters of mud, dirt has lodged itself under his fingernails, and his hair sticks to his sweaty forehead. That, and without his props _—_ the golden caduceus stuck in the ground to prop up a struggling sapling, the sandals at its feet _—_ he cannot possibly look remotely godlike.

Still, Regina’s gaze lingers ever so subtly, caressing over his arms, raising pleasant goosebumps in its wake, sparking warm tingles in his belly.

“I should hope not,” he sasses back, that smirk blooming wide and sure. “Poor wretch met quite the awful fate, wouldn't you agree?”

She shakes his head at him, but she’s smiling, and gods, if it’s not the most wonderful sight he’s ever beheld.

And he’s lying to her. By omission, perhaps, but it’s no less deceitful. Can she be blamed for mistaking Robin for Hermes? Surely not, anyone would. If Robin, however, chooses to keep up the charade, the blame is entire his own. Then whatever is sprouting between the two of them _—_ because there is something, they both know _—_ shall be corrupted. And if she’s ever to trust him, he’s already betraying that trust by not being forthright.

“Regina _—_ I’ve a confession to make.”

Immediately she’s shaking her head.

“Enough confessions for the day,” she says, not quite a plea but close enough. “What I need is a distraction. Perhaps you can help with that?”

Alas, he does.

Because, gods help him, he’d do just about anything to conjure up that elusive smile again.

* * *

The second time, it’s steeped in pain.

She arrives late, when Apollo has already sunk into the dark depths of Oceanus. Her step is stilted somehow, but she cracks a smile anyway _—_ or attempts one. A feeble thing, fleeting.

“You’ve missed it,” he says, forcing his own version of a smile unsmiled, as he gestures towards the last reflections of a fading sunset.

“You’re still here,” she marvels. As if he’d ever leave without seeing her, without making sure her delay meant no ill.

“That I am. Your trees require no further attention, however. Perhaps,” he hesitates, searching her eyes under the flickering stars, “I could take you for a walk in the moonlight instead?”

“Perhaps another time,” she sighs, and Robin’s heart drops _—_ but then Regina adds a breathless: “Will you sit with me?”

A well-worn boulder awaits somewhere to their left, but before he’s the chance to sit, Regina yelps and careens sideways, bumping into Robin’s side with a soft groan.

“I’m fine,” she snaps, entirely unconvincing, even as she sinks onto cool stone.

Robin leaves it at that and claims the spot next to her. She’s quite the temper, Regina does, and when met with his own hot-headedness, things tend to get, well, slightly explosive. Tonight he just wants to soak up her presence, bask in the onset of relief that no ill had befallen her.

Silver-faced Artemis peeks over the treetops just as Regina shifts, her thighs brushing Robin’s as she stretches her legs and crosses her ankles _—_ gingerly, her breathing unusually shallow.

Robin blinks _—_ her right ankle, testing its cradle atop the left, is swollen to twice its size.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She won’t look at him as she speaks, and Robin winces when he glances her way. An angry gash slices into her upper lip, and her eye seems cast in a dark shadow that hasn’t shifted since she arrived, even though the moonbeams’ angle has.

_The bloody bastard._

This is the king’s handiwork _—_ the cuts, the bruises, the injured ankle.

He’s going to kill the beast, strangle and gut him for what he’s done _—_ what he’s doing to her, ruthless and cruel without fear of punishment, because Regina has no recourse and they both know it.

“I’ve had worse,” she whispers, perhaps to reassure him, but that’s not what her confession does at all, how could it?

She swallows hard, staring ahead still, and what could he possibly say to make it better? So he doesn’t _—_ inches his hand towards hers instead and lays calloused fingers over slender ones.

She turns her palm to meet his and twines their fingers together.

“I can’t leave. He’d never allow it. He would hunt me down.”

For the first time, Robin wishes he really were Hermes, or even just a measly demigod with the power to smite the blasted king to Tartarus, so that Regina would be safe, and happy.

Whether he speaks the words or thinks them loud enough for her to somehow catch, her words come in response to his thought.

“Happiness was never meant for me. All I ever wanted in life is to be free, and even that shall never be.” Her words are heavy, dark, hollow _—_ Robin wants to contest them, braces to protest, but _—_ “Hope is but poison when you know nothing can ever come of it. Don’t feed me poison and claim to be my friend.”

“I _am_ your friend.” Yet that passion that chased his assurance is bogged down in guilt. He still hasn’t told her. He carries that ornate staff around, trails the golden sandals through dirt, and finds no joy in them. Every day he aches to tell the truth and fears the consequences of that and the ongoing lie, and every day something _—_ a sudden summer storm, a stray splinter in his thumb, the echo of hooves among the trees that sends Regina on her way in a frenzy. And now, well, how could he add to her burden, too? Tomorrow, though. Yes, tomorrow. For now, he vows: “There’s much you’ve yet to find out about me...but this,” gives her hand a gentle squeeze, “is true.”

Her eyes flutter closed with the soft _whoosh_ of her breath, and she rests her head on his shoulder.

Tomorrow.

* * *

Tomorrow comes _—_ but Regina doesn’t.

Not at dawn, nor by noon, nor at dusk does her silhouette emerge from the thicket.

Robin broods, and prays, and curses. He paces the length of the grove and sits with his back against the mightiest trunk, with his head in his hands and his heart in his throat. All in vain.

He could go to her. Granted, he’s no idea which way to take, but he could find her tracks and follow in her footsteps, he’s sure of it. Perhaps he could _—_ he will, if she doesn’t show by morn he’ll _—_

Hooves beat against the ground, pounding against his skull, and wait, could it be _—_?

It is.

“Regina. Gods, Regina!”

He gathers her in his arms the moment she slides down from the saddle, feels her solid and trembling against him as she clings to him in return.

“Are you all right? Are you injured? Did he _—_?”

Fingers tangled in dark tresses come away sticky _—_ her hair, her chiton, her cape’s all covered in blood.

Still shaking, she chokes back a peculiar little sound.

“I killed him.”

“You _—_ killed him.”

Regina nods, wide-eyed, dazed.

“It’s over,” she breathes. “I can be free.”

That choking sound vibrates in her throat again, then bursts forth _—_ and she laughs, breathless and shaky and raw, as her fingers twitch and dig into his bicep.

She’s shaken to the core, but she’s all right, she’s going to be all right.

“Come away with me.”

And this time _—_ the third time it happens _—_ she’s the one asking him.

#### Stasimon 2: Lovestruck

_CHORUS:_

_Through thick and through thin, together to stand,_

_Lonely hearts greet their mate as his palm finds her hand._

_Through sunshine, through storm, side by side every step,_

_Oh but Damocles’ sword ever hangs o’er their heads._

 

_In their wake it will follow—the goddess’s wrath._

_For that wretched, cursed Apple new discord begot._

_“Aphrodite”, he begs. “Aphrodite,” she pleads._

_“Aphrodite, have mercy, sow not pain from Love’s seeds.”_

 

### Episode 3: Revelations

The gods are angry tonight, and their towering temper rattles Earth’s bones.

Violent winds howl through the trees, great gusts pressing against the steed’s chest like a giant, invisible shield, slowing them to a heavy trudge. Merciless blasts tear at their clothes, weave a whip of Regina’s hair. Dark strands lash at Robin’s cheeks, but he only wraps his arms tighter around her middle and buries his face in her neck. Hunkered together, they offer each other some semblance of protection from the raging elements. With Regina enveloped in him, Robin bears the brunt of the rain, the worst of the storm.

He should be doing so much more.

Hermes certainly would; any god could. But Robin is very much mortal. He can only dream about controlling the weather, no matter how desperately he wishes to do just that. Not that Regina knows any of this.

By the gods, what must she be thinking?

Regina is gripping the reins with chilled fingers, unyielding, as if the brief taste of freedom lent her an iron will.

She doesn’t ask for divine intervention.

Isn’t this exactly that, though? The gods _—_ or rather one tempestuous goddess _—_ punishing Robin’s folly. Except Regina’s been caught in the crosshairs, and it tears him apart to think she might meet her doom on the brink of freedom, all because of him.

“Shit!”

The horse rears, all spooked sound swallowed up by the storm. Robin lets go of blood-stained, rain-soaked silk _—_ if he must go down, he’s not taking Regina down with him. As he lands flat on his arse in a splatter of mud, a pair of hares dart past him.

_Mighty Aphrodite._

Regina slides from the saddle, urging him up while barely withstanding the buffeting winds herself. They come at them from all sides: dry Notos and moody Euros, cold Boreas and gentle Zephyros gone on rampage. Staggering and stumbling, clambering, grabbing and clinging to each other, Regina and Robin end up knocked about and knocked together, entangled in limbs and shredded garments.

Only then does Regina allow herself a brief reprieve, melting into his arms for a bit, nose burrowing into his neck.

With one last protracted howl, the wind lets up, now a steady whistle and whirl.

Over the top of Regina’s head, something disrupts the brown-and-green ribbon of forest stretching around them.

“There,” he points, adding: “Shelter.”

Ivy coils around weathered, crumbling columns. Leaves lie strewn across pink marble tiles, and a great oak stretches its mossy arms over the gaping hole in the roof. A single statue still stands among the ruins _—_ grand, glorious even in its downfall.

Aphrodite.

“I returned the Apple,” he breathes, then turns from the goddess to Regina. “I promise I did.”

She doesn’t seem to hear him, though.

Wringing out the sorry tatters of her chiton, her movements are erratic, and a soft gasp escapes her as she spreads the fabric in leather-chafed fingers. Hemmed with mud up to her knees, it's otherwise pristine.

The rain has washed away the blood.

“Am _—_ am I forgiven?” she stammers.

She should be. By the gods, she shouldn't be hunted for an act of self-preservation. Even if law and custom mete out a harsh punishment for those who orchestrate a spouse's demise. No, the Furies shouldn't come to haunt her, nor fill her ears and mind with threats and accusations until she can no longer bear the burden of guilt.

If the gods are just, that can't be her fate.

Robin's never been a pious man.

Neither has Regina, by her own admission _—_ yet she seems drawn to where the altar must once have stood before being reduced to rubble.

From it she plucks a single peacock feather.

She turns to him, wide-eyed: “Was this here when we first came in?”

It was not.

Hera the queen of all has sent a sign.

“They’ve never heard me before,” Regina muses, caressing the brilliant feather between finger and thumb. “Funny they should start now, with _—_ well, you around.”

Oh, she has no idea.

And he’s going to fix that. Right now. He’s not her lucky charm, hasn’t put in a good word with the Olympians _—_ certainly not the way she seems to suspect. He’s not been honest with her, though without ill intent, but dishonest all the same. That stops now.

“Regina, I’m sorry… I’m not who you think you are. I’m no god _—_ just a measly thief who set out to prove he could hoodwink Hermes himself.”

He can’t look at her, can’t bring himself to meet her eye and see her shrink under the weight of betrayal, to know he’d brought that darkness upon her. Anger, he could deal with, but pain… He can’t, and yet he must _—_ it’s only right. He owes her as much.

Regina is frowning at hims with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Finally. I’ve been wondering when _—_ _if_ you’d tell me the truth.”

* * *

“You knew?” he asks, entirely stunned.

 The fool.

 She should be angry _—_ and she has been. He’s been holding out on her for so long, all while having the audacity to worm himself into her heart. She should be angry, and she would be _—_ if only he didn’t look so comical in his utter bemusement.

 Gods, he’s impossible.

 “Robin,” she sighs, “you were barely in control of those sandals. You basically tripped over your own feet, remember? I suspected trickery from the onset. You did your best to hide that drop of blood the splinter from my hoe caused, and I let you get away with it, but I still saw. Gods don’t bleed. Cocky thieves who share spoils with the sick and downtrodden, however…”

 “You know about that. And my name.”

 “I was a woman alone in the woods with a strange man who led me to believe he was a god and presented me with a cursed but invaluable gift,” she points out, and he has the decency to look contrite. “I’ve done my research. And just so you know, you’re bragging about the wrong thing.”

 Her voice goes soft _—_ she slips into it so easily with him, the hardened shell she’s cultivated for so long discarded. She’s always felt deeply, with her whole soul. Robin brings that out in her, and though terrifying, it’s also oddly invigorating. Like life sizzles under her skin, and finally her future feels less of a menace and more of an adventure.

 “I didn’t run away with you for your powers. I did it because you’ve earned my trust. Because you care _—_ truly, genuinely care. That’s rare. For me, anyway.”

 Robin isn’t fooled by the the tiny shrug she punctuates her confession with _—_ there’s nothing casual about it, really. She’s just...overwhelmed. When he steps closer, it both helps and doesn’t help her nerves at the same time.

 “I never meant to deceive you, Regina,” he vows, and she believes him. “It started as a grand gesture that just...spiralled, I suppose.”

 “Oh, so it wasn’t to stroke your ego?” she teases.

 If she hoped it’d help her rein it in with the haywire feelings, she was wrong _—_ he’s close, and he smells like forest and fresh dew, looks handsome as ever with those clear eyes and deep dimples.

 “Well, yes, the Hermes heist,” he gives her, brushing their pinkies and watching for her reaction. She hooks hers into his, and her heart skips when his face splits into a smile. “The Apple, on the other hand… I’ll admit it was something of a misguided attempt at gallantry. I wanted to woo you, Regina. I wanted _—_ ” He pauses, choosing his words with care, bless him. “To brighten your days.”

 “You have.” Their hands are joined now, swaying at their sides _—_ the movement, the warmth of him soothes her as it always does. “No thanks to the Apple though. That was all you.”

 “And now you’re free.”

 Is she really? Can it be?

 It can, and it is.

 She feels so light she might just float away.

 “Yes,” she grins like the lovestruck fool she is because why hide it, why do it now, with him. “Ironically, your little prank hasn’t been the complete disaster it should by all logic have been.”

 Robin’s eyes twinkle, his dimples flash, and he’s about to sass her back as they do when she pulls him in _—_ close, their toes touching and their breaths mingling as her fingers travel up those delicious arms and meet behind his neck.

 And then she kisses him, and it feels as if the Fates had meant for the threads of their lives to meet and never part again, twining and unfolding together.

 “A simple _thank you_ would suffice,” he smirks, and earns himself another in retaliation.

 An owl hoots in the night, and by the time rosy Dawn touches the sleeping lovers’ cheeks, the winged sandals and the golden staff are gone.

 Wise Athena knows they shan’t be missed.

### Exode: Lovelight

_ ATHENA: _

_ ‘Twas the time, yea, to banish old squabbles and strife _

_ On the world wars have left far too ugly a mark. _

_ Call us vain, call us petty, any number of names, _

_ Now united we stand, so much stronger our reign. _

 

_ Our accord to these mortals shall bring only gain _

_ As we join divine powers and concoct a fine plan. _

_ I my help  happ’ly give to the brave and the wise, _

_ Behold the new couple, each a lion at heart. _

 

_ HERA: _

_ Though my help has a price, this earth-queen need not pay. _

_ Every bruise and past hurt, those shan’t ever quite fade. _

_ Blood demands blood, or so law would prescribe, _

_ The dark Furies have orders by which they’re to abide. _

 

_ APHRODITE: _

_ My dear Apple is safe, by its silken bed kissed. _

_ Though my anger was great, Eros’ arrows don’t miss. _

_ WIth devotion and love the soul mates shall stand strong, _

_ And to punish such love would be twisted and wrong. _

 

_ A new home they shall seek, a new home they shall make, _

_ An old quest, thirst for love shall be finally slaked. _

_ Just one seed from her grove takes firm root in fresh soil. _

_ Up shoot leaves, a new tree, the first fruit round and small. _

 

_ It is red like her cheeks when she ponders the move. _

_ She should catch, he should throw their intentions to prove. _

_ With a blush she doth throw, and her thief deftly catch. _

_ Old tradition made new—her beloved said yes. _

 

_ And the thief  with his queen a thanks skyward do send -  _

_Stole from Love, stole for love, and reaped love in the end._

 


End file.
